It is quiet brisk. The fall day is dreary, bright orange and red leaves floating down to the ground, caught up in little tornadoes atop the sidewalk.
I don't know why they pick on me. I haven't done anything to anyone. I hate them.
The backpack weighs down my shoulders, so I give a quick, little jump to maneuver it into a more comfortable position. School gets longer and longer everyday. Lunch is just time for me to get to class early, eating in peace amongst the decade old computers. The only time a computer taunted me was when a boy typed in what he wanted to say and had the machine speak it back to me. I didn't find it funny but the teacher did.
There is something in the road, a small, black colored mound, across the two yellow stripes. For some reason my insides become warm with a dishonest hope. I run over to the peculiar discovery to find that it is a half-flattened, dead crow.
I take my backpack off, setting it on the ground without care and carefully pick up the roadkill with both my hands, cupping it ever so gently. The eyes are still intact, the beak is whole and hardly any feathers are missing aside from the ones that were burned off with the sudden rub of rubber. Recently deceased.
With strange ease I slip the carcass into my back pack and sling the bag over my shoulder. The journey home continues.